


The Almost Murder. With Bongos.

by Batwynn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Bongos, Established Relationship, FrostIron - Freeform, Humor, Loki's cranky, M/M, Poetry, Romantic Comedy, Tables are thrown, Tony's drunk, and, are killed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki's not like Thor, he doesn't go around making friends with mortals. He tolerates the ones forced upon him, and makes due with what he has. </p><p>Stark's an exception, of course, but things get complicated when Loki finds himself making friends with someone new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Almost Murder. With Bongos.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone told me to write a story with Loki making a new friend. I don't even know, to be honest. I don't even know.

 

 

Loki was not one for meeting people, or as Stark liked to phrase it, he was not one for ‘making friends’. He generally had little to no interest in mortals outside of those he already knew, and they were barely tolerable as it was. It was a bit of a change for him, then, when Stark abandoned him to give a speech at the fundraiser for some starving children or another, and he actually _did_ make a friend. 

 

“Gordon,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand with smug expectation. Loki accepted it, only because he knew his grip could crush the man’s fingers in the blink of the eye and the mere knowledge of this was enough to satisfy the more violent urges. For now.

 

“Loki.” 

 

“Yes, I thought I recognized you,” Gordon replied, taking his hand back and taking a sip of his drink. “I see Stark managed to drag you into his madness.” 

 

Loki wasn’t sure what, exactly, he meant by that. Stark was rather mad, so there was no point in denying that. 

 

“I’m not sure I’ve been dragged anywhere.”

 

“He has dragged you here, I see. Last I heard, you were still under watch of the ‘heroes’.” 

 

Loki openly scoffed, and was startled when the man joined him. It was… oddly pleasant to meet someone who didn’t worship the ground the Avengers walk upon. 

 

“I am in a transition period, actually. Stark managed to convince them that I needed some fresh air, so to speak.” 

 

“So they do let you out,” Gordon remarked, brow raised and wholly unimpressed. 

 

Loki bristled at his tone. Was he implying what Loki _thought_ he was implying? Loki was not some dog to be ordered around, jests of fresh air aside. 

 

“I go where I wish,” he snapped, making a point to turn his gaze away from the man and stare up at the stage. Stark was still talking, some nonsense about ‘more food, less weapons.’ The inventor actually paused long enough to give Loki a wink—wonderful, now everyone was looking at him—and continued on as though he had done nothing wrong. 

 

“So, would you be up to some more fresh air?” 

 

Loki frowned and eyed the man askance. He had clearly dismissed him, what was he playing at? He should have left already, but instead, Gordo was standing right next to him, wine in hand, confident smile never wavering. It was tempting to go back to ignoring him, but the stares of the rich and dull were starting to wear on him. He would have to punish Stark for that later. 

 

“Where does one get this fresh air?”

 

* * *

 

 

And that was how he made a friend. 

 

At first, Stark was furious, and Loki relished every moment of it. His little genius could be so possessive, sometimes. Adorable, really, when it wasn’t disruptive. The man had deserved punishment for that little stunt at the fundraiser, so Loki let him not-so-silently fume as he went out on his ‘date’. 

 

Gordon had invited him to some sort of tasting event, fine wines and small cheeses. He was wholly unimpressed with the vineyard until he was given his first testing glass, and was introduced to the wonderful world of reds and whites and _Krug Clos du Mesnil Chardonnay_. 

 

Anthony had never brought a cheap wine into his home, once, in his entire life, so Loki was no stranger to a good drink with his dinner. But Stark also had his favorites, and as experimental as he was on other areas, he tended to stick with the wines and spirits that he liked, without much adventure. This was a chance to experience new tastes, enjoy the quiet yet cool atmosphere of the well-to-do, and to speak of things outside of magic, technology, and fighting. 

 

Overall, the event was a success, and Gordon climbed ranks from ‘tolerable’ to ‘associate’. 

 

His arrival home ruined the pleasant buzz rather abruptly, thanks to a watery-eyed, drunk, raging Stark.

 

“Don’t come back here after cheating on me!”

 

A bottle of something whizzed passed Loki’s head and shattered on the floor behind him. As angry as he should be—for one thing, the assumption that he was doing anything of the sort was insulting—he was a bit at fault for the misunderstanding. He _had_ said the word, ‘date’, after all.

 

“It was nothing of the sort,” Loki sighed, lazily waving a hand at him. “Now get off the counter and come to bed.”

 

“A date!” he yelled, voice going annoyingly shrill. “You went on a daaaaattteee! With _Gor-don_.”

 

The name was spoken with so much drunken-distain, Loki could not help but laugh. It didn’t help that the man was wobbling across his bar, waving his arms in the air with great drama. 

 

Perhaps the laughter was not a good idea. 

 

“It’s… not… FUNNY!”

 

Loki sighed, walking up the the bar before the foolish mortal fell and broke his neck. Clearly, this was beyond humor for Anthony, and Loki offered up his best placating smile and pulled the moron down into his arms.  
  
“Enough. You know I have no interest in such things. You do recall my threats when you flirted with that dancer, no?”

 

“Thass easy for you…” be began, face scrunching up in confusion. “You… you’re some prince thing an’ you threaten all the time. Why is that related? ‘Sssnot.”

 

 

“If I have no wish to see you with another, why would I wish to _be_ with another?”

 

“S’not logic.”

 

“And you are very drunk,” Loki mumbled fondly, glad at least that he hadn’t reached the regurgitation stage. There was time, yet. 

 

“I rannaa background check on _Gor-don_ ,” Stark rambled, curling into Loki’s chest and becoming a dead weight. “H-he’s so… _boring_.”

 

“He is not that bad,” Loki laughed, carrying him to their room. 

 

“Whooshe?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Who… is… he?”

 

“He’s a… friend,” Loki replied, surprised with himself.

 

There was no reply, because Anthony had already fallen asleep with a pouty frown on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

After that, things went rather well for a while. Stark was brought along to the wine tastings, only becoming impossible when Gordon toed the line between charming and flirtatious. Loki kept him in line, for the most part, and left the rest to be settled between them. 

 

After a few more trips out, once to an opera that Stark loathed with his entire being—he wrote a rather childish review and posted it everywhere—his lover finally began to let Loki go out with Gordon alone again. Not that Loki needed his permission. 

 

“The husband letting you out?” Gordon’s voice teased over the phone. 

 

Letting the stale joke slide, Loki replied, “He may or may not be joining us today, depending on his boredom and state of dress. Or, undress.”

 

Gordon let out a bark of laughter that had Loki smiling as he peered down the hallway to their bedroom. 

 

“Well, tell him: tonight’s poetry.”

 

“Poetry? Do mortals still have love for their bards?” Loki mused, creeping towards the door. Inside, Stark’s unmistakable singing could be heard, echoing off the bathroom walls. 

 

“Oh, they sure do. It’s a nice place, too. High class, a little dark, edgy. You’ll like it, I know.”

 

“I should warn you, Gordon, I have spent many years amongst the best-known poets of the Nine Realms and, myself, have written many. I do not wish to be disappointed.”

 

“Hey,” Gordon groused, “You liked the opera, didn’t you?”

 

Loki admitted that, yes, he did enjoy the opera, and agreed to meet him down town at the Le Poisson Noir. 

 

“Anthony!” he called out, popping his head past the bathroom door. 

 

Something clattered to the shower floor. “Jesus—what?!”

 

“We have an outing planned for tonight.”

 

“If it’s opera, you guys are going alone. I’d rather listen to Clint drunk-sing Nicki Minaj all night, again.”

 

“It’s poetry.”

 

Stark’s foam-ladened head appeared from behind the fogged glass, his expression incredulous. 

 

“Seriously—you’re serious? You _are_. Why the hell would you think I would like that any better than the opera?”

 

 

Loki simply shrugged, leaning back against the sink. “Than you do not have to join us. I shall be at the Le Poisson Noir at 9.”

 

Stark’s eyes widened, and his scowl transformed into a wicked grin. Loki did not like the implications of that. 

 

“Le Poisson Noir? Oh _really_?”

 

“I assume you have heard of it and do not like—“

 

“Oh, sure, I’ve _heard_ of it,” Stark drawled, his grinning face disappearing into the shower once more. “I think I’ll join you.”

 

“I’d rather you not, I think,” Loki huffed, narrowing his eyes at his lover’s tone. 

 

“Oh no, no, no, Lokes. I _have_ to go now. Let me get dressed. I need black… a black turtle neck sweater. Oh good, yeeess… and skinny jeans, a must. Maybe I can find a beret. JARVIS, do I have a beret?” 

 

“No, sir, you have never owned a beret. Shall I order you one?”

 

Loki rolled his yes and left them to their planning. He wanted nothing to do with whatever nonsense that was. He would, however, enjoy seeing Stark’s body in tight pants. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They arrived ten minutes early, Stark dressed as planned—sans beret, whatever that was. Loki was dressed similar, simply because his taste did tend to run in black with black and tighter fitting clothing. Anthony, at least, didn’t mock him, but seemed rather pleased to be wearing ‘matching outfits’. Something about moronic couples, Loki wasn’t paying much attention. 

 

“Stark, what the hell are you wearing?”

 

Both men turned, but Gordon only had eyes for Anthony’s outfit. Disgusted eyes. 

 

“Hey, when in Rome,” Stark replied with a shrug. 

 

The revulsion lingered on Gordon’s face long after they had retrieved their drinks and situated themselves at a tall, round table. There was a small amount of fuss about the tall stools from the shortest—loudest—of the group, until Loki told him to silence himself before he glued him to the damned thing. That seemed to cheer Gordon up a bit, and they settled into a comfortable mood as the stage was set up. 

 

“It’s gloomy in here.”

 

“It sets the mood,” Gordon huffed.

 

“Yeah, that or they’ve got some issues with their fuse-box.”

 

Gordon took a long drink and ignored him.

 

On stage, a woman was setting up the microphone, her voice ringing out in the small space, “Check, check. 1 2 3.”

 

“Oh, I’m so _deeply_ moved,” Stark moaned, clutching his chest and falling against Loki’s shoulder. 

 

Gordon muttered, “ _Idiot_ ,” under his breath, earning himself a sharp glare from Loki. It may, in fact, be true at times, but no one was allowed to call Anthony that but him. 

 

“Check, Check. Red, Blue, 1 2 3.” 

 

“My _soul_ —“

 

“Shut up.”

 

Loki was going to murder someone tonight if this kept up.

 

By the time the first poet was on stage, Stark and Gordon were viciously not-speaking to one another and already on their fourth drink. Loki, of course, was stuck between them, sitting in stony silence as a young man strutted across the stage and took a seat on the stool before the microphone. 

 

“Name’s Erin, and I’m going to bring your inner eye to tears.”

 

Oh yes, Loki was going to **murder**. 

 

“ _The night’s subtle dark_

_dances._

 

_Dances across her skin like_

_water._

 

_Dances like your dad’s_

_old dog._

 

_But she’s dead, so_

_she won’t dance_

_no more_.”

 

It wasn’t murder-worthy, Loki would admit. It was _only_ terrible. Thousands of years with bards from many realms, the Elves singing of the old forrest, the Dwarves, their shining stones. The Fire Giants rumbling epics as they watched their sacred mountain send fire to the sky. The Frost Giants with their winter winds, and battle stories. Loki had heard them all, and told many, himself. And this little fleck of _grease_ thought he could bring Loki to tears? 

 

Stark, thankfully, said nothing. He seemed too appalled for words. 

 

“Erin is my second favorite here,” Gordon was saying to no one in particular. “But wait until you hear Bobby.” 

 

“Ah,” Loki breathed. “And when does this… Bobby speak?”

 

“Oh, he’s second to last. They save the good ones for the end, I guess.”

 

“Second to last out of how many?” Stark piped up, eyeing Loki past his glass. 

 

“Only ten, tonight.”

 

They shared a secret grimace behind Gordon’s back. 

 

“ _She sells no shells by the sea shore!_

_She sells nothing!_

_She’s strong, and beautiful._

_She is the sea._

_She is the sea shell by the sea shore!_ ”

 

The woman paused to take a breath, and whispered, “Thank you.”

 

Loki had now caught up with Stark and his drinks and at some point, had begun whispering critiques into his lover’s ear. They were being quiet enough for Gordon—the enthralled—to miss what they were doing, but loud enough so that the table of people to the left of them was growing irritated. 

 

“Oh! It’s Bobby!” Gordon called out, turning around and smiling brightly at them. Anthony plastered on a smile in return, and leaned back in his stool with practiced nonchalance. Loki, for his part, pretended to be interested in his drink. 

 

_BA-donk_! 

 

Loki looked up from his glass, and beside him, Stark snorted loudly. A chorus of shushing came from the table beside them, but was soon drowned out by another:

 

_Ba-ba-BAP_!

 

“What… is _that_?”

 

“Shh,” Gordon hissed, waving a hand at Loki and whispering, “It’s a bongo. This is how he does it.”

 

The man on stage—Bobby—had a small set of drums tucked between his legs, his eyes closed as he swayed to the music in his head. Only a few, scattered beats of the drums accompanied it. And then he began. 

 

“Sunshine…”

 

_BA-donk_! 

 

“You are, so bright. I live for your—“

 

_Pah-pah-BONK!_

 

“—eyes.”

 

And that was all Loki can stand. 

 

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT METER _IS_?!”

 

The little round table went flying, along with their drinks, napkins, and Gordon’s phone. 

 

“IAMBIC PENTAMETER!?”

 

Someone was screaming as a stool hit the stage. 

 

“ALLITERATION?!” Loki screamed, following the stool and launching himself at the terrified _Bobby_. 

 

The bongos were ripped from shaking hands, and brought down upon the head of the fake poet with a beautifully loud: 

 

_BA-CRASH!_

 

* * *

 

 

Needless to say, they were thrown out and the police were called. 

 

Stark had to lay down on the sidewalk for a while to catch his breath from laughing before calling his lawyers. 

 

Gordon left without his phone, and without looking back. 

 

Three days later, when Loki remembered that that _had_ been his friend, and perhaps he should call him, he used the lack of phone as an excuse not to do just that. 

 

Two months later, Stark bought a set of bongos and stayed up all night playing them with Clint. Loki had to remind himself of all the reasons he tolerated these idiotic mortals, and ended up breaking the damned things anyway. 

 

 


End file.
